


Welcome Home

by SeaweedWrites



Series: 30 Day Prompt Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: End of Series Spoliers, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Not Really Parental Mycroft Holmes, Parental John, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Sort of Parental Sherlock Holmes, cute fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9446156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaweedWrites/pseuds/SeaweedWrites
Summary: This is for the Day 25 prompt: “Missing Home”. It is set about a year or so after the final montage at the end of Season 4 Episode 3- “The Final Problem”. Rosie looked like she was about a year old then. So, spoilers for all seasons.Things are mostly back to normal at 221B Baker Street. John and Rosie may not be living there, but they come around more and more often. When a crisis arises, Sherlock finally sees where his priorities lie. And then he gets an idea that perhaps 221B could be more than just a 'scruffy flat where the desperate come'. Maybe it could be a home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found a 30 day prompt challenge. I am not going to even bother trying to do them all in 30 days, but I do want to eventually finish all of them. 
> 
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> I am going to try to do them all in the same “universe” except for the AU of course. If a fic isn't in the same universe, I will say so in the Author Notes. 
> 
>  
> 
> They will be set all through the series and possibly before and after. I will note when they take place, so assume spoilers for the whole series for all of them. 
> 
>  
> 
> I won't be doing them in order. I'll do them as I get the inspiration. 
> 
>  
> 
> Some might just be short drabbles, and others, like this first one, may be rather long.
> 
>  
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> Xxxxxxxxx
> 
>  
> 
> This is for the Day 25 prompt: “Missing Home”. It is set about a year or so after the final montage at the end of Season 4 Episode 3- “The Final Problem”. Rosie looked like she was about a year old then. So, spoilers for all seasons.
> 
>  
> 
> Things are mostly back to normal at 221B Baker Street. John and Rosie may not be living there, but they come around more and more often. When a crisis arises, Sherlock finally sees where his priorities lie. And then he gets an idea that perhaps 221B could be more than just a 'scruffy flat where the desperate come'. Maybe it could be a home.

When did it actually become _SUMMER_ in London? Greg Lestrade thought to himself while wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of an already moist sleeve. “What I wouldn't give for a normal cold and rainy London day.” He muttered under his breath.

 

“Can we please get this done, Graham? I have somewhere that I have to be soon.” Greg knew _DAMN_ well that Sherlock knew his name. At the end of that whole Eurus debacle, he had said 'Greg' with no hesitation. Now he was just doing this to goad him on. And dammit, it was working. 

 

That's not fair. Greg scrunched up his face in frustration.

 

Why could he never get a leg up on that damn detect-

 

Wait a tick.

 

Greg smiled like a cat who ate a canary, which of course made Sherlock shoot him an inquisitive look. The detective had been checking his watch every couple of minutes. There was somewhere that he would rather be. Well, that was normally the case with Sherlock, but this was different. This time, he was especially anxious to leave.

 

“Ohhhh. I know what's going on.” Greg said smugly. “Who's the one with a date now?” He remembered back to about 18 months ago, during the Borgia Pearl investigation, when he had been trying to get along with that pretty dark haired agent that had also come to Baker Steet to talk to the boys. Sherlock had, of course, deduced him in his normal lightning quick fashion, and had warned Greg that she wasn't the woman for him.

 

Of course, Sherlock  _ HAD _ been right. It hadn't worked out with her. But he never gave the man the pleasure of admitting it. He knew the damn brilliant detective knew, but as long as he never admitted it, then he wouldn't call it a total failure on his part.

 

The superior feeling that he had  _FINALLY_ deduced something about the great detective in the funny hat was quickly gone as soon as he looked at Sherlock's face. 

 

“I'm supposed to pick up Rosie in an hour.” He replied in a low, even tone, and Greg deflated like a balloon. His face sunk.

 

“Oh. Um.. Sorry.” He stuttered out an apology and mumbled some excuse that he had to go to another part of the crime scene. Cockroaches didn't scurry away from light faster than Greg Lestrade made a beeline across the parking lot to the far side of the crime scene.

 

Sherlock smirked and shook his head. He turned and bent down to the asphalt, shimmering in the rare London heat. There were blood stains that he had to get a sample of, so that he could prove that it had been the jealous lover of the man who owned the pizza place they were standing in front of.

 

As usual, it seemed quite obvious to him. He smirked again when he thought about how nice it would be to explain it all to Greg and watch his face go from obliviousness, to confusion, and then finally..  _finally_ to that first inkling of understanding. 

 

People assumed that Sherlock liked to explain his deductions to people because he enjoyed feeling smarter and superior to others. Well, he had to admit that was a small part of it. In the past it certainly had made him feel pretty damn good.  
  


  
But... He had changed a lot since he first became the world's only consulting detective. He found over time that he truly, honestly liked to watch other people, and observe when they finally understood what he was talking about. He relished that split second of recognition, that moment when their mind put the last piece of the puzzle together and they go 'AHA'! That's it! He actually liked to see other people realize what he does, so for just a moment, they can also feel that joy of understanding that seemed to come to him so easily.

 

Understanding was everything to him.

 

His pocket buzzed, but he ignored it. He opened the vial and started to scrape some of the dried, crusty blood into the tube. He had only gathered a little bit when he received a second buzz, then a third one.

 

Immediately, all thoughts of the crime scene went away. Three texts- one right after the other. Something was wrong. His stomach tensed, and he dropped the scraper and the vial, which rolled down into a storm drain. “Damn.” He cursed his luck about the blood, but right now something else was more important. Quickly, trying to keep his breath calm, he pulled his phone out and with a slightly shaky hand, looked at the screen.

 

_Rosie's sick. JW_

 

_Bad fever. Took her to hospital. JW_

 

_Come to Princess Grace. JW_

 

And then, another buzz just a moment later, as if it had been an afterthought...

 

_She's ok but wants Uncle Sher. JW_

 

Sherlock let out a breath that he didn't even know he had been holding, He felt like he had swallowed an apple whole- his throat was trying to close up on him.

 

“Sentiment” He whispered with a smirk. _'_

 

_'Mine, but not mine'_.

 

_Be there soon. SH_

 

It took a few moments for his heart to start beating a normal rhythm again. When it had, he found Donovan and told her to relay to Lestrade that he had to leave, and that he would text him the details of the case by tonight.

 

Without even waiting for a response, he turned around and headed to the nearest main road. Unfortunately, he was in Wembley, and it was close to rush hour. There was no way he was going to get there any time soon. He gritted his teeth in frustration while waving for the nearest taxi, which came a few moments later.

 

“Princess Grace Hospital in Marleybone. There's an extra twenty quid if you can get me there in less than 15 minutes.”

 

Eighteen minutes later, they arrived at his destination. He thanked the man and gave him the fare money and the extra twenty. It was close enough. The trip would have taken 23 minutes in light traffic, so he couldn't begrudge the man 3 minutes, especially when it seemed like they had hit every red light in London.

 

_I'm here. What room? SH_

 

He didn't wait for a reply before he walked as quickly as his long legs could take him into the A&E and right up to the receptionist desk.

 

“I'm looking for Rosamund Mary Watson. She was admitted earlier today.” The name, even after all this time, still made his heart ache just a bit. Her mother had been the most extraordinary person that he had ever met- which is the highest compliment that Sherlock could ever give a person. She was an enigma wrapped up in a riddle, and the only person without the last name of Holmes that could keep up with his thought processes on an almost consistent basis. The loss of the person who was perhaps the closest to his equal other than his siblings was tough on Sherlock. But to lose his wife and the mother of their child, that tore John apart. It had ripped the friendship asunder as well. Wounds heal, but the scars of the past will never quite fade altogether.

 

“Are you.. family?” The nurse at the desk looked up at him with a mix of curiosity and weariness. She's close to the end of her shift. She's been here 10 hours, he deduces. He could lie to her, but if he was caught and not allowed to see Rosie because of it... it wasn't worth the risk.

 

_'Mine, but not mine'._

 

“No. Not by blood at least. But she does call me 'uncle.' He put on his best smile. Maybe charm was the way to get to her, he figured. “I work with her father, and I often look after her while he is at work. I got a text that said she needs to see me. May I see her, please?” He could really turn on the charisma when he needed to. He even showed the tired, overworked nurse the texts that John had sent.

 

She sighed deeply. “Alright. Usually after normal visiting hours we can't admit non-family, but I know who you are. You're Sherlock Holmes. You work with John Watson.” She wrote his name on a sticker then handed it to him. “Put this on your shirt.” The nurse pointed to a set of double doors to her left. “Go through the doors, down the hallway, through the second set of doors, and you will be in the Emergency Ward. She's in Recovery Room 10. On the left.”

 

The last thing that Sherlock wanted to to was to advertise who he was. As much as he REALLY didn't want to draw any more attention to himself, he knew that this was the only way he could see her. He just had to hope that people would ignore who he was and not ask a million dumb questions before the got to Rosie's room.

 

He nodded his thanks and headed down the hallway, looking down, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone. He heard the comments from people as he walked by. “Hey, isn't that..” and “Why isn't he wearing the hat?” He successfully ignored them all, finally going through the second set of doors into a surprisingly dark and quiet room.

 

As soon as he walked through the doors, the nurse that was on duty at the desk got up and walked towards him, her hand out in a 'stop' motion. “I'm sorry, sir. It's after visiting hours and..” He sighed as he saw the recognition in her eyes. “You're Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective!”

 

“No. I am just a man who would really like to see Rosamund Mary Watson. I was told that she was in Room 10. May I see her, please?” He could see the gears clicking in her head. He shouldn't be here, he isn't family, but it's well known that he works with her father, so he would be close to the daughter as well. And it's after hours, even the father should have left, but they weren't going to kick a father out of his only child's hospital room. The nurse's thought process was clear as day to Sherlock Holmes, and all he could do was impatiently wait until she reached what he hoped could be the only logical conclusion. To let him...

 

“I'm sorry, but no.”

 

“What?”

 

“You aren't family, and the father shouldn't even be here. We could be fired for letting him in. I'm sorry. I just can't...”

 

“What's going on here?”

 

A weight on Sherlock's shoulders lifted when he heard the familiar, commanding voice of John Watson. He knew that voice, it was his 'doctor voice'. His 'soldier voice'. The one with presence, the one he put on when he needed to exude an era of importance. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk softly.

 

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wat...”

 

“Doctor.” If she wasn't going to let him in anyways, Sherlock was at least going to correct her with his title.

 

The nurse flashed a quick, stern look at Sherlock, then looked back to John. “ _Doctor_ Watson.” She stressed the first word almost condescendingly. “We can't let him in. He isn't family. In fact...” Oh great, Sherlock thought. Now she feels insulted and she's going to make him leave as well. And it's all my fault.

 

“I have, in fact, made arrangements for them to both stay the night in the room.” Every set of eyes turned to the man who had just walked through the double doors.

 

“And you are...?” The nurse asked.

 

“A person whom you do not want to upset, I can promise you.” The response was even, measured, not a hint of _overt_ threat in it. “I have spoken with your boss. Mr. Mooney, I believe. I made it clear to him that Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are to have full access to that room as long as Rosamund is a patient. Have I made myself clear?”

 

All the nurse could do was nod and grumble softly while walking back to her station. “I am going to say hello to the child, but I will not be long.” He addressed the woman again. “And if I hear that there are any issues after I leave, there will be... consequences.”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

“As usual, brother mine, I am left cleaning up your mess.”

 

Several snappy comebacks went from Sherlock's brain to the tip of his tongue, but they died there. Instead, he settled on a very quiet “Thank you.”

 

Not surprisingly, that garnered a bigger reaction than any insult could have. Sherlock actually thanking someone sincerely? Before Mycroft could form a response, John and Sherlock had already turned around and were headed down the hallway.

 

“I don't do well in hospitals, but since I am here, I should see the... little one.” Sherlock smirked at Mycroft's choice of words. His brother had been trying, in his own limited way, to be nice to Rosie and treat her well, but...well... awkward didn't even begin to cover it when it came to Mycroft and children. The effort was appreciated by them both, and they never begrudged his shortcomings when it came to dealing with Rosie.

 

“Uncle Sher! Uncle Mike!” Sherlock chuckled while Mycroft bristled at the name. He had _ALWAYS_ hated to be called Mike. His parents called him that when he was a child, and his mother still had a hard time breaking that old habit. And of course, Sherlock did it when he was younger merely to annoy him. Of course, Mycroft had sinister ways of getting revenge, but even hot sauce in his toothpaste was worth that look of sheer hatred that he received from his big brother. To his credit, though, Mycroft flinched at the nickname but said nothing, brushing it away as a necessary evil when it came to dealing with young children.

 

“Rosie. What happened?” Sherlock went over and planted a tiny kiss on her forehead, which made her giggle.

 

“I got hot. Daddy said it's ..f-f”

 

“A fever.”

 

“A fever.” She repeated after her father.

 

For a 22 month old, Sherlock knew that she had a much larger than normal vocabulary. Most 2 year olds know 50-75 words. He guessed that she probably knew at least twice that. Of course, it didn't hurt that both of his parents were very smart. One had been a genius spy and assassin, so she came from good stock. And Sherlock saw her almost every day. He would always make sure that whatever toy she had was a learning implement as well. He had already told John that he was going to teach her to read by three (he was reading at two and a half), and will start introducing a new language soon after (He learned French, Spanish, and German before he went to primary school).

 

“She had a high fever this morning. It was 39 degrees. She was clammy and barely responsive. I gave her some ibuprofen to get the fever down, but when it didn't work, I brought her here.” John noted the rather dour look on Sherlock's face “Most likely, it's nothing. Sometimes kids get fevers. She might have just been fighting off a low grade infection. They are going to watch her tonight, and as long as the fever doesn't come back, she'll be released tomorrow.”

 

“Wanna sleep in my bed!!”

 

“I'm sorry, Rosie. It's just for tonight. The nice doctors here need to make sure that you are going to be okay before they send you home.”

 

“I'm okayyyyyyy..” Uh oh, The pouty voice was coming out. They knew what that meant. After pouty, usually came crying and then a full on tantrum. Two year olds were not that hard to predict.

 

No one expected what came next.

 

Mycroft cleared this throat, and walked up to the bed that was far too big for her tiny body. “I... thought you might like something to help keep you warm. I know hospital rooms can get rather chilly.” He looked over at his little brother when he said that.

 

How many times through the years had Mycroft sat at his brother's bedside, when he was coming down from whatever drugs he had decided to take that time, or when he was reckless on a case and got himself shot or stabbed or thrown from a building while chasing down a criminal?

 

Mycroft put the briefcase that he had been carrying on the table next to the bed and opened it. From it he removed a small, plush blanket. At the top of it was a bluish gray plush elephant head, the rest of the blanket was the same color.

 

Rosie's eyes lit up as soon as she saw it. Elephants had become a recent obsession of hers, ever since Uncle Sher had shown her a picture of one in a book that he bought about African animals. But how had Mycroft known that? He had only gotten her that book a week ago, and he hadn't visited since before then. Sherlock made a mental note to ask his brother later.

 

“I LOVE IT!” She squealed and grabbed the blanket/plush combo and snuggled it close. “Thankoo Uncle Mike!”

 

This time, he didn't flinch. He just smiled down at her and nodded.

 

As quickly as the happy mood filled the room, it was broken. The barest hint of a smile that had been on Mycroft's face dropped as he turned to Sherlock and John. “I have to get back. I have a lot of work to do. A low level government employee's job is never done, you know.”

 

He looked back to Rosie for a moment. “I hope that helps you sleep better, Rosamund. Your father and Sherlock will take care of you from here. Feel better.” Mycroft closed his briefcase, did a sharp turn, and walked briskly out the door and down the hallway. Sherlock was sure that he gave the nurse one last withering look as he walked past. He couldn't see it, but he knew his brother all too well. No one else would disturb them tonight.

 

“You... don't have to stay, Sherlock. I'll be here all night. The only place to sleep are these rather uncomfortable chairs. There's no need for both of us to suffer.”

 

John had also sat watch over him in those 'rather uncomfortable chairs' while he lay shot or drugged. Not as many times as Mycroft, but enough that he knew he could never live long enough to pay John back. He could at least do the same for his daughter.

 

Sherlock broke up the awkward silence by clearing his throat. “Why don't I go get us something from the cafeteria, if it isn't already closed? “

 

John smiled and shook his head. “I'm not really hungry right now. I know you aren't. You never are.” He smirked at his friend. “I had a few bites of her food.” He added the last bit as if to sate Sherlock, to tell him that he had at least had some semblance of sustenance today.

 

Food didn't work, so Sherlock tried a different tact. “Coffee?”

 

“Actually, that would be great.”

 

Sherlock wandered the dark hallways for a few minutes, listening to the hums and beeps and whirs of the machines in the Emergency Ward. He saw wives and mothers, fathers and brothers sitting vigil. He couldn't help but wonder what John and Mycroft had been thinking when it was them sitting there, watching over him, worrying, wondering if he he would wake up this time.

 

Sentiment.

 

He shook away those thoughts and headed down to the main lobby to get them both coffee. Thankfully the cafe downstairs was still open. He got a couple of cups of coffee and a bag of crisps, a type that he knew John liked. Maybe he could get the man to at least eat a little bit.

 

The irony was not lost on him.

 

Sherlock saw his body as merely the transport for his brain- the most important thing to him. Eating and sleeping only made his brain slow down to a crawl, it was AGONIZING, not feeling at the top of his game, like he was slogging through muck and mire. That was his own personal hell.

 

John tried to make him eat and sleep because he knew that despite Sherlock's grumblings, he did, in fact, need it. While he understood and appreciated it, he still did as little as possible of both to keep his brain in top form at all times.

 

“I'm ba-” He stopped when he noticed that Rosie had fallen asleep. “Oh. Sorry.” He whispered, and handed John his coffee.

 

“Thanks.” He whispered back.

 

The sat in a soft, comfortable silence for a while, sipping their coffees and watching Rosie's chest gently rise and fall with each long, deep breath. Her face was cherubic, soft and calm and content. Just watching her made Sherlock ache with happiness.

 

' _Mine, but not mine_ '.

 

She wasn't his daughter, but he would move heaven and earth for her. He would kill for her and die for her. And he knew that as proud of her for being so brave, and happy as he was right now that she was going to be okay, it must be only a fraction of how John felt. He could only imagine.

 

The rest of the night was, thankfully, quite boring and uneventful. John was able to get some fitful sleep, sitting at the side of the bed, holding Rosie's hand ever so gently in his own- her tiny hand dwarfed by his. Sherlock watched over them, hovering, a hawk over his nest. _HIS_ brood. He was tired, but the protective instinct won out in the end....

 

'M _ine, but not mine_ '.

 

...so he watched over them. The nurses came in once an hour to silently check her vitals and made sure all the cables and wires were still attached. They were like ninjas, Sherlock thought with a grin. He was deep enough into his mind palace that most of the times they came in, they were so quiet that he didn't even notice them.

 

Sometime during the night, Sherlock had actually managed to doze off. Slowly, consciousness came back to him, fuzzy around the edges at first. He yawned softly and stretched like a cat, working out the kinks from sleeping in what he was sure must have been the most uncomfortable chair ever. Finally, as the grogginess cleared his ears, he heard the end of a conversation.

 

“Looks like Uncle Sher is finally awake.” Sherlock shot John a death look.

 

“Uncle Sher!” Any annoyance he had,-ever- any time, immediately melted away into a pile of nothingness when he heard that voice.

 

“Rosie, dear.” She got to see a smile, his real smile, one that only a few people in the world had ever seen. It was reserved for the lucky few who had penetrated his walls and buried their way into his heart. And two of them were in the room right now.

 

A quick look showed that she had been disconnected from almost all the tubes and wires that she had been attached to last night. Those nurses are good, he though to himself with an inward smile. All she had left was a pulse ox meter on her left index finger.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Good!” She beamed, and so did he. She was the sun, and he orbited around her.

 

' _Mine, but not mine_ '.

 

“Were you and your daddy talking about me?”

 

Rosie giggled. Sherlock was sure his heart melted just a little bit. “Ummm.. Maybe?” She looked over to her father.

 

  
“Were were just commenting that it's rare to actually see you sleep, and how you don't get nearly enough. And Rosie thinks that you look cute when you sleep and that you should do it more.”

 

His cheeks weren't getting red, it was just warm in here. That _HAD_ to be it.

 

For a moment. He was well and truly gobsmacked. The great detective had no answer for a 2 year old child.

 

“I... I promise that I will try to sleep more, if you listen to your daddy and go to bed when he tells you to. Deal?” Sherlock held out his hand.

 

“Deal!” She had no idea what to do, so her took her hand and shook it. “You shake hands like this when you make a deal. That is a promise to each other that you will uphold your end of it.” She silently took in this information, absorbing it like a sponge. She truly was her mother's daughter in many ways. John only smiled and shook his head. Those two are a danger to get together.

 

And he wouldn't want it any other way.

 

It was a fairly boring morning. The three of them chatted, trying to keep her occupied until they could find our when she could go home. Rosie ate a little of her breakfast but not much, so John helped, and they both guilted Sherlock into eating a few bites of toast. The nurses kept their 1 hour vigils, though they were much more talkative and less ninja-like now that everyone was awake and feeling better.

 

It was almost lunchtime before the doctor came back in to see how she was doing and give a status update.

 

“Doctor Watson, and Mr. Holmes. I'm Doctor Franklin. I'm glad to see you in better circumstances this morning.” He shook their hands, then took her records from under his arm. “All of her blood work is normal. It is unusual to have such a high fever with no underlying condition, but she is perfectly fine by all other accounts. As long as this doesn't happen again in the near future, then the prognosis is excellent for her. She is in excellent health. Height wise she is in the normal range. She is in the normal range for weight, though she is at the lower end, and she was talking with our nurses, she appears to be quite bright!”

 

John lit up and Sherlock swelled with pride.

 

' _Mine, but not mine_ '.

 

“I have already put in for her dismissal papers. When they are done, a nurse will come in with some paperwork to sign, and after that you three are free to go.” He shook their hands again, and smiled down at Rosie. “Ready to go home, young lady?” He asked with a wide, toothy grin.

 

“Uh huh!” She nodded vigorously and smiled back.

 

“It's been very nice talking with you all, and I wish you all the best. Have a great day!” And with that, he hurried off to the next patient.

 

“Home now?” Rosie was already trying to get out of the huge bed. John frowned and shook his head., gently holding her back onto the bed with one hand. “Just a few more minutes, my love. As soon as the nurse comes in.”

 

“Why not nowwwww?” Uh oh. The pout again.

 

“Because, Rosie, she is out slaying dragons right now. And that's a really hard thing to do. It takes time. But when she is done slaying all the dragons, then she will be here.” Her eyes went as wide as saucers. John rolled his eyes.

 

“Really, Uncle Sher?”

 

“Could I ever lie to that beautiful face?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well then, there you go.”

 

Thankfully for all of them, seeing as its downright impossible to keep a bedridden 2 year old happy, it was less than an hour before a nurse knocked on the open door and peeked her head in.

 

“Hello! My name is Nurse Williams. I'm here to have you sign some discharge papers!” As she walked in, Sherlock saw the brief flash of surprise on her face. She hadn't been expecting to see two men sitting at the girl's bedside. But the smile quickly came back.

 

“I'll take those. I'm Doctor John Watson, her father.” John got up and met her and took the clipboard from her, signing the forms where needed.

 

While John was looking at the papers, the nurse turned to Sherlock. He could tell she was going to try to make small talk and inwardly winced. He was quite aware of what this looked like, and though he really didn't give a rat's arse what people thought of him, he cared about John and Rosie more than life itself, and would kill to keep their reputations intact.

 

“We are not a couple. We work together and I am her godparent.” He said simply, cutting off the question before she asked it, not curtly but rather straightforwardly.

 

Her smile dipped a little “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't want to... assume anything.” There was, perhaps, the tiniest twinge of guilt somewhere deep down in Sherlock, though honestly he figured that it was really none of her business anyways.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He offered her his hand at what was an attempt by him at an apology. But immediately the smile came back to her face tenfold.

 

“ _THE_ Sherlock Holmes? And... wait... You are John Watson, his blogger?”

 

John's face blushed slightly, and Sherlock tried not to sigh too loud. “Yes, I am.” John replied before Sherlock could say anything else to possibly offend her. Again.

 

“I've read all of your blogs. I loved the one about the aluminum crutch. It was very entertaining.”

 

“Thank you.” He signed the last paper and handed the clipboard back to the nurse. “It was very nice to meet you. But, if it's all the same, I would like to take my daughter home. She's had a very trying night, and so have we. I think we all want to sleep in our own beds.”

 

The nurse was a little disappointed, but she smiled at them. “I understand. I'm sorry to have bothered you. You are all free to go.” She pulled the pulse ox monitor of of Rosie finger. “Have a nice day.”

 

John felt more than a little pang of guilt as the nurse left. He didn't really mind getting recognized. There is, of course, some happy little bit of ego that comes with people knowing who you are. But he was not going to drag Rosie into the spotlight. She was to be protected at all costs.

 

“Come on, sweetheart. Let's go.” John shook those feelings out of his head and picked up his daughter, holding her tighter to himself than normal. Sherlock saw his friend's protective nature come out. He had always been a protector, and now even more so with his family.

 

' _Mine, but not mine'_.

 

“Baker?” Rosie asked, still not quite able to say the whole address.

 

“No, honey. Back to our flat, where your bed and all your toys are.”

 

“Baker!” This was not a question, it was an imperative.

 

“Rosie, dear. We are going home.”

 

“Baker!” Louder and more decisive this time.

 

John looked helplessly at Sherlock, who merely shrugged. He had as little idea s John did as to why she would be so insistent about going to Baker Street instead of the Watson household.

 

“You can stay if you want.” He said simply, addressing his comment to John.. “Your bedroom is always open.”

 

John was tired and cranky and really didn't feel like arguing with a recently sick 2 year old. He knew deep down inside that giving into her demands was actually the exact wrong thing to do. But... it was home to him as well. It always would be.

 

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Fine. Baker Street it is.”

 

“YAAAAAY!”

 

“BUT.” John looked at her sternly. “You have to listen to everything that your uncle Sher and I say. If we tell you to eat, eat. If we tell you to take a nap, take a nap. If you don't listen, we will go home immediately. And we are going home to the flat tomorrow morning. Is that understood?” John's doctor voice was coming out again, Sherlock thought with a grin.

 

“Deal!” She stretched out her hand, even though her father was holding her tight against his chest. John had to shake his head and laugh. She's just too much. He awkwardly positioned her so he could hold her with one hand and shake her hand with the other one.

 

“Deal. Ok, let's go home.”

 

Sherlock was pretty sure that John was so tired and anxious to leave that he hadn't even realized what he had said.

 

_Home._

 

_Xxxxxxxx_

 

It was that day, when they took Rosie home from the hospital to Baker Street that Sherlock hatched his plan. It took some time to implement, but he was patient. He needed to make sure that all the pieces would fall into place.

 

The first piece was Mrs. Hudson.

 

He knocked loudly on her door a few months after Rosie had been treated for a fever.

 

“Hello, I- Oh, Sherlock! You know you can come in any time.”

 

“Well, I actually needed to talk to you about 221C, the room in the basement.”

 

“What about it, dear?”

 

“I... want to... renovate it so it can be used as an apartment.”

 

“Did you have someone in mind to rent it, dearie?”

 

“I... did.” A smile spread across his face. “Come downstairs with me and I'll explain it all.”

 

Xxxxxxxx

 

The next piece was going to be tougher. It came a couple of weeks after the visit with Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Good afternoon, brother mine.”

 

“Sherlock. You sound entirely too chipper. What do you need this time?”

 

“I was hoping that you could point me in the direction of an architect and a builder.”

 

“Your flat has already been rebuilt once, brother mine. How did you destroy it this time?”

 

“It isn't my flat. It's 221C. I have plans for it.”

 

“And how do you plan on paying for these... plans? I cut off your trust fund years ago.”

 

“I do make -some- money being a consulting detective.”

 

“Not enough to afford an architect and a builder.”

 

Silence from the other side of the phone line.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Silence.

 

“I... want to do this for them.” The voice was barely a whisper.

 

Mycroft sighed heavily into the phone. “Okay. How can I help?”

 

Xxxxxxxx

 

The third piece was by far the most complicated and took the most time.

 

He may be the world's only consulting detective, but when it came to architecture and building, he was quite out of his league. Thankfully, the architect that Mycroft had sent over was very helpful in giving him ideas and working with Sherlock to flesh out the throughts that he had floating around in his head. It took a few visits over several weeks, but finally the design was put down onto paper. Now all he had to do was to let the builders do their jobs, and somehow keep John and Rosie out of Baker Street for a while.

 

It actually ended up being much easier than he even imagined. He found out that John was going to take Rosie to see the now sober ( _finally_ ) Harry. She had moved out to Sheffield a year and a half ago to get away from the people who were unduly influencing her, and apparently she was thriving. John was taking 8 days off at the clinic to go visit her and take Rosie to see the aunt that she had not met yet.

 

Getting all of the work done on 221C in a week was a tall order, but the builders promised that they would work as hard as they could to complete it on time. Sherlock preemptively thought of a few scenarios that could buy them an extra day or two, though he hoped that it would not be necessary.

 

As it happened, it wasn't. The builders got all of the work done in a week, with only a couple of hours to spare.

 

Xxxxxxx

 

Then, it was time for the final step.

 

It had actually been Anthea who suggested this interior decorator. Sherlock had met with the woman that she had suggested the same day he met with the architect. He was directing this whole project like a play. All the players had to come in at just the right time. The decorator had to be ready to swoop in as soon as the builders were done. They had exactly one day to paint and decorate. He told the woman his ideas and showed her the plans that the architect had drawn up, so she knew what she was working with.

 

The decorator used her time well. While the builders created the room, she was busy buying the pieces that would go inside- paint, sheets, pillows, table and chairs, everything to make it a home.

 

She recruited Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Molly to help her when decoration day came. Even with the four of them, they had to work late into the evening, but finally... _FINALLY_ it was done.

 

Sherlock couldn't sleep that night. He had to find some excuse to get John and Rosie over to the flat tomorrow. His whole body thrummed with anxiety He couldn't stop pacing the floors, which had sent Mrs. Hudson up to his flat a couple of times in a worried mess. This was a huge gamble. John had no idea what was coming, and it could still go horribly, horribly wrong if Rosie didn't like it, or if they didn't want to leave where they currently lived.

 

It didn't escape his mind that these anxious nights were the type that in the past where he had longed the most for the short and sweet embrace of the needle in his skin, the warmth spreading up his arms, through all of his limbs, making him feel lighter than air. For that brief time.. his mind _stopped_... It was calm and placid and he didn't feel like a train speeding down a track, ready to derail at any moment.

 

But he knew better now. The ache was still there, the utter _need_ , but he could hold it at bay. All he had to do was think about her face.

 

_'Mine, but not mine'_ .

 

He managed to keep his demons at bay through the night by reading through his entire 6 volume set of “The History of England”. And when that didn't take him long enough, he decided to silently compose on his violin. With the amount of light outside, he figured that it was around 0400, so he couldn't actually play his violin without rousing the ire of his neighbors, but he knew his instrument well enough to compose in his head. He would 'road test' it by playing it later, though he trusted his instincts and knew that it would sound just as he had imagined it.

 

He looked at the sheet music on his stand. It had two words at the top. ' _MY ROSE'_ . He had been composing it for a long time now, but he had been stuck on the final reprise. And now, in this early hour, it came to him. The ending to a piece that had been dominating his world for almost two and a half years now. 

 

The notes came fast, even for his brilliant mind. He jotted a few down, then stopped to play them in his head, and continued to the next stanza. Every stanza, every line, flowed out of him like a river of thought and emotion. He was in a trance, every bit of himself poured into the music.

 

When he finally wrote the last notes, the sun was already over the tops of the buildings opposite his flat. He collapsed in a heap onto the couch. The essence of himself was spent, all of his energy was drained, his lifeblood transferred to the notes on the paper.

 

It was already dark when he woke back up. There was a cup of tea next to him, and a blanket had been carefully draped over him sometime as he slept. The tea was ice cold, and the room had been tidied a bit. Mrs. Hudson. She was always there to look after him, he thought with a sleepy smile.

 

The smile quickly fell from his face. “Damnit. It's too late to tell John and Rosie to come over.” He had worked himself so hard that he had collapsed from exhaustion and literally slept the entire day away. And now he had another restless and anxious night ahead of him.

 

He got up from the couch, his mood now extraordinarily sour. He paced around the flat a few times, his bare feet slapping angerly at the rough wood beneath him. He was mad and bored and that was  _never_ a good combination when it came to Sherlock Holmes. 

 

A soft bark of laughter broke his thought process. Did Mrs. Hudson have guests? It was almost time for her 'evening soother'. It seemed odd for her to have guests this late. There was another bout of laughter, and it sounded like more than one person this time. He really was not in the mood to entertain guests, but his curiosity got the better of him. He threw his dressing gown over his t-shirt and pajama pants, tied it up, and rather loudly clomped down the stairs. If he was in a bad mood, everyone in the flat knew it.

 

Without even bothering to knock, he opened her front door and took a few steps in. To his utter surprise, he saw Mrs. Hudson having tea with John, and Rosie was playing on the floor, though to his well trained eye he could see that she was quite tired and wasn't going to be awake much longer.

 

Whatever they had been talking about was instantly halted as soon as he walked into the room.

 

“Uncle Sher!” Rosie dropped everything that she was doing and ran up to him, curling tightly around his leg and not letting go. And the sun rose again- the warmth spreading through him while she clung tightly to his leg.

 

' _Mine, but not mine_ '.

 

“Rosie. Did you have a good time at Aunt Harry's?”

 

“OK. Kinda boring.” The yawn that she gave was not from being bored, though he smiled at the irony. She was exhausted. He could see it in her tiny little face. But still, he had to chuckle. Leave it to a child to tell the truth and not sugar coat things. That was what adults lacked, he thought, the ability to tell it how it really is.

 

“Well, you're back now.” He looked up at John. “You are visiting a bit late.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson invited us over. We came up to see you, but you were asleep. You looked like you needed it, so we let you rest. Remember what Rosie said about you sleeping?”

 

“That I need more of it.” He muttered, and Rosie sleepily smiled, finally untangling herself from his leg and curling up at his feet.

 

“Yes, well, you do. So we came down here to chat a bit. We were going to come check on you again before we left. But I guess you found us first.”

 

This is it. This was the time. It was now or never.

 

“John. I... um... I'd like to talk to you and Rosie, if I could.”

 

John's face went deathly serious. “Is something wrong, Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson invited us over. She said that she thought you might like to see us today since we hadn't visited in over a week. “

 

_OH._

 

Mrs. Hudson, you wonderful, luminescent being, Sherlock thought. She had invited them over, knowing what he was going to do. And he had almost totally cocked it up by sleeping through the entire day. Oh, you amazing, amazing woman. He shot her a warm smile. She was thoroughly brilliant. What would he do without her?

 

“Sherlock?”

 

He smiled at John. “Oh, no. Not at all. Come with me, please. I have something to show you.”

 

Utterly confused, John picked up a very sleepy Rosie, thanked Mrs. Hudson, and followed Sherlock out to the hallway. He had already instinctively turned towards the stairs going up to 221B, when he noticed that wasn't where Sherlock was heading.

 

“Sherlock, where are you going?” He had already descended a couple of steps. He looked over his shoulder and flashed a quick grin. “Just follow me. All will be revealed.”

 

“That's what I'm afraid of” John muttered. But loyal, faithful John followed as he always did, wherever it was that Sherlock Holmes led.

 

When they got to the bottom of the steps, Sherlock pulled a set of keys out from his pocket.

 

“The door. It's new, it has a different lock on it.” He had only seen the apartment once- and that had been many years ago, but he remembered that it had been a rather ratty door, with peeling paint and a couple of old brass locks on it, the apartment numbers almost falling off. But this was a new, sleek black door, with a normal lock and a deadbolt, and the fresh brash numbers of 221C emblazoned in the middle.

 

“Did you... fix the door?” He asked, still clueless.

 

Sherlock was quiet as he undid the two locks and pushed open the door.  
  


  
He was pretty sure he heard the sound of John's jaw hitting the floor.

 

It was nothing like it had been so many years ago when John has seen it last- peeling wallpaper, floorboard jutting out at odd angles, all manor of paint chips littering the floor. The walls were a bright shade of pink, with a similar pink set of curtains over the small half window to the side. There was a brass 4 poster bed with pink sheets, and next to it was a drawer that doubled at a bedside table, with a lamp in case she needed to see at night. There was another drawer, to make up for the fact that there was no closet in this small space, and a small wooden table, child sized, with four matching chairs and a toy tea set in the middle of it. The door on the far side led to a small bathroom with a toilet, a sink, and a shower that was barely big enough for one person.

 

For a few breathless moments, no one spoke. Sherlock's heart moved in slow motion. He knew that John understood what this meant. This was not a temporary room that she could stay in if they decided to visit. This was to be _HER_ room. 

 

Too many heartbeats.

 

Too many.

 

Someone.. say something. His heart was breaking second by second.

 

“Sh-Sherlock?” It was so quiet and he was so lost in his desperate thoughts that he almost missed it.

 

“John?”

 

“You did this for.. her?”

 

Sherlock looked at the lightly dozing child, that wonderful being that he would move heaven and Earth for...

 

_ 'Mine, but not mine _ ' 

 

...and smiled softly. “For... both of you.” He said after a short pause.

 

“I... I know you have a flat, and I have no right to ask. But I thought it would be easier for us to work on cases if... “

 

John shot him an incredulous look, which caused Sherlock to pause. “Easier to solve cases, huh?” He wasn't nearly as bright as Sherlock, but he understood that this was not about the cases at all.

 

“Well, I figured that since both Mrs. Hudson and I look after Rosie sometimes when you are at work, it was more convenient to have her close by.”

 

John crossed his arms, for once his face was totally unreadable. “Is that a fact?”

 

“Yes.”

 

There was silence for a moment.

 

“But what if Rosie likes our flat?”

 

Something inside of Sherlock broke.

 

He muttered a quiet, quivering “Okay.” Sherlock turned and headed out the door and up the stairs. He had been rejected. John didn't mind visiting 221B, but it wasn't home any more. He was a fool. An utter, utter fool. Why would he have thought that? He had been gone from Baker Street almost 4 years now, since Sherlock had faked his death and left John to pick up the shattered pieces of his life. He had moved on- with Mary, and with Rosie.

 

Hot moisture pricked at the sides of his eyes, but he kept it in. He had to keep it in, he was better than this. He didn't need friends, he didn't need sentiment or any of those other base emotions that only served to cloud the mind and slow the judgment.

 

He had made it to the ground floor. Mrs. Hudson's lights were off, thank goodness for that small miracle. He couldn't have talked to her now if she had been up. Before he could turn to the second set of stairs that would take him into his sanctum of solitude, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Sherlock, stop, please.”

 

He whirled around, anger and hurt etched in stone on his face. “You made your point quite clear, John.” He snapped. “I understand that you wish to continue living where you currently reside. Rosie is asleep. You should get a cab and put her to bed. She's had a long day.”

 

“Sherlock, please. Shut up for a damn moment.” He raised his voice as much as he dared to, to not wake the child in his arms. “I'm sorry about what I said down there. I had meant it in jest.” He took a deep breath. “What you did was... simply amazing. I have no idea how you did all of that. I'm sorry that she was asleep and that she didn't get to see it. We can show her in the morning.”

 

For a couple of moments, the world stopped turning on its axis.

 

“You... like it...”

 

“Of course I do, you silly git. You went above and beyond to give my daughter the bedroom of her dreams. How could I not love it?”

 

“But, your flat. She likes her bed, and her toys.”

 

“She will like her toys just as much in her new room. And I'm sure that she will love her new bed as well.”

 

“So... you...”

 

“She'll sleep with me tonight on my bed here, like she has many times before. In the morning, we'll show her her room, and ask her if she wants to live there.”

 

“And... you?”

 

“I would do anything for Rosie, you know that.”

 

Any sort of smile that he had, had faded from his face. So there it was. John didn't want to live here, but he would solder on for his daughter.

 

“Oh.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “You know, you call yourself a genius, but you can be incredibly thick at times, do you know realize that?”

 

Sherlock gave him what may have been the first ever blank stare of his life.

 

“Baker Street has been my home for many years now. I may not always have lived under its roof, but coming in that front door is like coming home.

 

“You... want to live here.”

 

“Jesus, Sherlock. You are dense. Yes. Yes, I would love to live here, as long as Rosie agrees.”

 

He could feel the pieces knitting together, slowly gathering in a pile and righting themselves, making a Sherlock shaped puzzle.

 

“We'll talk more in the morning. This lump of a child is getting heavy.” John shifted her and she stirred a bit, but didn't wake.

 

Sherlock bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When John got there a moment later, he had the door to the living room held open.

 

He smiled as they walked in.

 

“Welcome home.”

 

_Mine, mine, mine._

 

 

 

 


End file.
